


Night At The Bar

by Churbooseanon



Series: More Than Friends [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Real World, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friday night he was here, sitting in the same damn bar, perched on the same damn stool, and sipping the same damn beer. At first it made sense. Carolina had broken up with him. They’d known each other since high school and the woman had been perfect. But now, after all this time, maybe the same old thing isn't enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night At The Bar

Some things in life came down to a strange sort of routine. There were actions that, once made, ended up being repeated. Them repeated again. Repeated so many times that the repetition thereof created paths of increased ease, or habit, to a degree that straying from him might not only be illogical, but uncomfortable. Such is visible in nature in the trails made by larger herbivores in migration, in traditional paths of watering holes, or even in the runs of rabbits and hares. Great beats such as elephants walk the same course year after year to return to the watering holes that help them last the dry season. Salmon hatch and move to the sea, then return en masse to spawn in the very places they themselves were born. 

For York it meant that he was in this place in this time. Every Friday night he was here, sitting in the same damn bar, perched on the same damn stool, and sipping the same damn beer. Okay, so maybe not the same beer, because that would be weird and disgusting, but definitely the same brand of beer. He waited for the same twenty minutes for the same man to show up and sit beside him on the samn damn stool and order the same drink. 

The thing is, he shouldn’t need this. Doesn’t need this. Needs it more than he knows how to explain. At first it made sense. Carolina had broken up with him. They’d known each other since high school and the woman had been perfect. Is perfect. Carolina Church was smart, beautiful, athletic, and the warmth of her smile was surpassed only by the vibrant color of her hair and eyes. Three years they had been dating, and before the end York had been so close to proposing. 

“Hey,” a soft voice greeted at his shoulder like it did every single Friday. York looked up, again like every week before it and every week that would come after, and smiled just as softly up at his friend. 

“Hey,” he returned, before looking to the bartender, a surly asshole who just so happened to be the less agreeable of the twins that were Carolina’s younger brothers. Did he even need to gesture at this point? Leo knew the routine just as well as York did, maybe he respected it a bit more because it meant that York wasn’t dating his sister anymore. Either way the gesture resulted in the desired drink manifesting on the counter even as North sat. 

So began the routine that had framed their lives for longer than York cared to remember. Small talk helped them nurse those first beers, even though York knew the drinking would pick up soon after. Because it always did. No matter how he tried, the conversation changed with enough time. 

“I guess… I guess it’s just hard, yanno?” York heard himself saying after the second drink. First drink was sharing the grief and joy of the week. The time between that and the second was York turning to whatever woman had sat beside him to flirt. Not that he put real heart into it. How was a woman supposed to compare to who Carolina was, who the woman could still be? But after that was the second drink and then this. 

“I know,” North assured him, and York sighed softly at the hand that settled on his shoulder. The touch, somehow, was always unexpected. It was a warm, heavy weight that radiated heat through his skin. 

The thing about being a locksmith was that it wasn’t like he got a lot of physical contact that was kind, that was affectionate. More often than not when he got called in, if it wasn’t an appointment, the fact was that they were having a bad day. Locked themselves out of their cars, their homes, lost the things that were important to them. His job was to be there, to fix problems for them. By the time they turned to him they were agitated, they were angry, they were in tears. In the end it was York that tried to comfort them, and did he get a thanks? 

Well, he got paid, but that was never quite the same. 

But North’s touch? Every Friday like clockwork the touch was there, searingly hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. A small corner of his mind insisted that North’s fingers would be soft, would be tender. Every Friday York shook the thought from his mind, refused to let the hum of the alcohol under his skin lean into the touch. Ask to see just how soft it was. Indulge in the affectionate attention that no one had dared to offer him in too long. 

The touch burns and York always wanted to lean back and he always refused to let alcohol rule him. 

“I thought we had something,” York continued on the script, let the words fall from his lips like he had no control over any of it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he never had. “The way she used to look at me, the way she made me feel. Like I was the best person in the world. Like I could do no wrong. Except toward the end… it was like I couldn’t do anything right.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” North insisted, and the hand on York’s shoulder turned into the other man rubbing firm circles into his back. 

York didn’t groan with pleasure at the touch. Never did, never would. He was a creature of habit. 

“I should, though,” York countered. “I got so caught up in other stuff, I failed to take proper interest in her life and what was going on. In the end I let her down because I didn’t know how to be the kind of man she needed or wanted. I just…”

“You did your best.”

York let his head fall forward. If he ever looked up he would be ready to move on. Someday he would look up. 

“My best wasn’t good enough,” he answered bitterly, lifting his bottle to sip at it again. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“Hey,” North said, reaching out, and when the fingers that always found their way onto his head to ruffle his hair did so this time… 

There was something different about today. Some critical mass achieved that led to the whole world changing, the cycle breaking, or at least altering. Because for the first time York looked up. North seemed caught off guard by that, and when their eyes met, when he saw those soft, pale blue eyes, he saw something new. 

Maybe things would have ended there. Maybe they should have. But North’s tongue flashed out, slid over lips that York had never realized were so full, so soft looking, so perfectly colored. The alcohol buzzed under his skin and spun in his head and something strange in his gut that he hadn’t realized boiled in his body every Friday leapt higher. Burned in his blood. There was always something flawless about his cheekbones, his complexion, his posture. Why did the softness of his gaze always linger in his mind, how was it possible that he’d always craved North’s touch? 

Thought really didn’t figure into it. His hands came up, fingers threading into short, soft strands of pale-gold. Icy blue eyes went wide for the half a second York had before he couldn’t see anything but darkness. He had always closed his eyes when he kissed, and this sudden press of them together wasn’t going to change that. For a moment there was a struggle, a stiffness in the other man, but as his fingers curled in, tugged a little, and just like that North was groaning against his lips. The kiss went from reluctant to sweet and those lips were so pliant. 

The hand that was always at his back moved, finding itself sliding down and York groaned at the touch. Heat spread throughout his body and that was what mattered. The only thing which could remotely matter. The world was a place of infinite potential in that moment, and he wanted it. To fulfill all he was, all he could be, to enjoy this. 

“Oh god, just… Ugh, get a fucking room,” a voice cursed near them. 

York barely heard it over the pounding in his ears, his heart racing faster than it ever had before. The hand at his back seemed to pull at his shirt, and it was only when someone reached out and whacked the side of his head that he pulled away. The break made him groan and his eyes were glued only on North’s, only on the awe and wonder and clear, burning desire. 

“Seriously, if either of you do that again, I’m never going to serve you another fucking drink,” Church cursed, and even as North turned to look at the bartender, York was sliding out of his stool and grabbing the taller man’s wrist. 

He didn’t know or care who slammed the twenty down, didn’t think too much about the way North pushed him against the wall outside for another hungry kiss before they waved down a cab. The only thing York could focus on was the press of lips and the fumbling and the exploration. Nothing mattered as much as figuring out where this was going. Knowing what it meant. Feeling what it felt. 

In the morning, when he would wake up in a new and unexplored life, in his own bed instead of the one he had shared, all York could do was lay there and think. 

Maybe… maybe it was time to break the routine forever. 

Now all he had to do was convince North.


End file.
